Girl-Woman-Beauty-Brains-Blog

WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE ROAD?

For the answer, click "read more."

DR. PHIL:

The problem we have here is that this chicken won't realize that he must first deal with the problem on "THIS" side of the road before it goes after the problem on the "OTHER SIDE" of the road. What we need to do is help him realize how stupid he's acting by not taking on his "CURRENT" problems before adding "NEW" problems.

Well I understand that the chicken is having problems, which is why he wants to cross this road so bad. So instead of having the chicken learn from his mistakes and take falls, which is a part of life, I'm going to give this chicken a car so that he can just drive across the road and not live his life like the rest of the chickens.

We don't really care why the chicken crossed the road. We just want to know if the chicken is on our side of the road, or not. The chicken is either against us, or for us. There is no middle ground here.

We have reason to believe there is a chicken, but we have not yet been allowed to have access to the other side of the road.

That chicken crossed the road because he's GUILTY! You can see it in his eyes and the way he walks.

To steal the job of a decent, hardworking American.

No one called me to warn me which way that chicken was going. I had a standing order at the Farmer's Market to sell my eggs when the price dropped to a certain level. No little bird gave me any insider information.

Did the chicken cross the road? Did he cross it with a toad? Yes, the chicken crossed the road, but why it crossed I've not been told.

To die in the rain. Alone.

Because the chicken was gay! Can't you people see the plain truth in front of your face? The chicken was going to the "other side." That's why they call it the "other side. Yes, my friends, that chicken is gay. And if you eat that chicken, you will become gay too. I say we boycott all chickens until we sort out this abomination that the liberal media whitewashes with seemingly harmless phrases like "the other side" That chicken should not be free to cross the road. It's as plain and simple as that!

In my day we didn't ask why the chicken crossed the road. Somebody told us the chicken crossed the road, and that was good enough.

Isn't that interesting? In a few moments, we will be listening to the chicken tell, for the first time, the heart warming story of how it experienced a serious case of molting, and went on to accomplish its life long dream of crossing the road.

Imagine all the chickens in the world crossing roads together - in peace.

It is the nature of chickens to cross the road.

I have just released eChicken2005, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance your check book.Internet explorer is an integral part of eChicken. The Platform is much more stable and will never cra...#@&&^( C \..... reboot.

Did the chicken really cross the road, or did the road move beneath the chicken?

I did not cross the road with THAT chicken. What is your definition of chicken?

I invented the chicken!

Did I miss one?

 

Remember the acronym WWJD -- What would Jesus do? -- the phrase that became popular in the 1990s as a reminder to act in a manner of which Jesus would approve? Somebody made a killing on fashion accessories emblazoned with WWJD.

After reading my friend's article entitled, "The Hypothetical Reasonable Woman, " I'm contemplating buying some thread and fabric and hand embroidering "WWOD" -- What Would Oprah Do? -- on friendship bracelets as a reminder to act in a manner of which Oprah would approve. You do know I'm laughing. Right? Seriously, though. I bet I could make a killing.

Grab a cup of tea, or if it is after 5:00, pour yourself a glass of wine, and sit back and enjoy Karen Hamilton's witty take on "the hypothetical reasonable woman who wouldn't agonize over whether to buy the black pair or the silver pair of sexy, strappy sandals. They're on sale. She'd buy both."

The Hypothetical Reasonable Woman
By Karen Hamilton

By far the most useful class during my years at university was a business law course offered in my final term. It was there that I met the hypothetical reasonable man.

A bit of legal fiction, the "reasonable man" represents what a reasonable person would do under a particular set of circumstances.

Though originally intended for crimes and misdemeanors, the reasonable man so captured my imagination that I began applying the construct to my young-adult life as the hypothetical reasonable man morphed into the hypothetical reasonable woman.

Sometimes the hypothetical reasonable woman wins out - "The hypothetical reasonable woman wouldn't agonize over whether to buy the black pair or the silver pair of sexy, strappy sandals. They're on sale. She'd buy both."

But sometimes I give in to my baser self - "What would the hypothetical reasonable woman do? Eat a healthy salad for dinner and get a good night's sleep or tuck into the McSingle Woman's Happy Meal (popcorn and Chardonnay) and watch Sex And The City reruns until the bottle runs out? No contest there. Pass the clicker and find the cork screw."

As the years have gone by I've come to rely on the hypothetical reasonable woman whenever I don't know what to do. She's become particularly indispensable in my 40s when I sometimes question my behaviour. Is it proper or perimenopause?

Situation: Comment to husband that favourite black pants must have shrunk at cleaners. Husband responds - "Or maybe you've put on a couple of pounds."

Hypothetical Reasonable Woman: Ponder possibility that perhaps husband is right, make a healthy dinner for the family and resolve to get back to the gym.

Blatantly Insecure Perimenopausal Woman: Fire back snappy reply "Look who's talking, donut boy", run to bathroom and spend next fifteen minutes alternately weighing self and observing self in mirror while sucking in stomach.

Recently, I've even added a new level of moral rectitude. Now when a questionable situation arises, I go that extra mile and ask myself, "What would Oprah do?"

Putting myself in Oprah's stilettos for a few minutes, I'd guess that if Steadman ever suggested the lovely Ms. Winfrey were packing on the pounds, she'd be hauling him in for relationship counselling with Dr. Phil faster than you can say, "The Secret". She'd begin a diet journal and invite like-minded endomorphs to come on the show and share in her journey.

The hypothetical reasonable woman model (or, if you've feeling particularly virtuous - step it up to What Would Oprah Do?) can be applied to all sorts of midlife situations.

My recently divorced friend, H. who is back on the dating scene after twenty-odd years uses it all of the time.

Situation: Join new computer dating community and post picture and profile.

Hypothetical Reasonable Woman: Get hair done, put makeup on and hope for the best. Write witty, funny and truthful synopsis of self. Be open to all suitors - you never know what form your prince charming will take.

Blatantly Insecure Perimenopausal Woman: Select picture from seven years ago before gravity reared its ugly head. Lie about age in hopes of attracting younger, and in her opinion, sexier men.

What Would Oprah Do: Make plea to the universe that the right man comes her way. Call in army of "friends" for marathon session of health and beauty makeover.

While at times she seems a little bland, the Hypothetical Reasonable Woman is a friend indeed at those times when you just don't know which path to take. She's a kind of decision-making auto-pilot when we just can't see the forest for the trees.

And remember you don't have to follow her directions every time. For those situations when you're absolutely clear on how to proceed, helloooo Blatantly Insecure Perimenopausal Woman!

Karen Hamilton is the publisher of The Best Kept Secret, a weekly newsletter for women 40+. She is also a freelance writer with publishing credits in national newspapers, both local and national magazines, and several websites. Like the proverbial Seinfeld of the perimenopause set, Karen writes a weekly column about the minutiae of midlife in her humorous column found at The Best Kept Secret blog.

Cheers,
Beckie

Since I am out of town for another week, instead of my usual "Best Reads of the Week," I am posting for your enjoyment a humorous letter posted on BoomerGirl entitled, "Dear Oprah."

Dear Oprah,

How are you? I am fine. Well, actually, I'm not so fine considering I woke up with night sweats four times last night and my middle-aged eyes are so bad I can't read a blessed thing which is why I accidentally took the dog's medication instead of my thyroid pill.

But oh! Let me stop right there. Instead of flinging such negative karma to the universe, you would want me to choose gratitude for what comes my way. Therefore I declare that I am thankful that I will never have to endure the ravages of heart-worm.

I'm writing you today about last Thursday's show when you and your gal pal, Marianne Williamson, asked us to embrace the miracle of aging.

Now, Ms. Winfrey I try to do all the things that you say. Were it not for your book club, who knows what I would read. And how else would I refer to my va-jay-jay in public if it weren't for you spreading the word? All though I do wonder just why I want to be referring to my va-jay-jay at cocktail parties and such, but no matter. I'm sure you'll have a friend on your show who will explain that to me, too.

And speaking of your friends, I really must say I'm enjoying them all. Especially that cute Dr. Oz with his deep, probing questions. Gosh, when he wanted to know, "Do you ever sit back at night and think, 'Why do I have pubic hair?'" I was ever so impressed. I had never considered that before.

If anything, I usually sit back at night, in the spare five minutes I have after the kids are in bed, the dog has been walked, the dishes are done and the e-mail's been checked and lapse into a comatose state. If ever I think of my pubic hair these days, it's to idly wonder if Lady
Grecian makes a formula for the nether regions.

You and Miss Williamson (who is lovely by the way) directed us viewers to believe that 50 and beyond will be the most miraculous time of our lives and I so want to believe! But, Ms. Winfrey, there is one teeny, tiny thing niggling at the edge of my mind. I hate to bring it up, your Oprahness, because I know what I project will ultimately come back, but ma'am, what should we do about the parts of midlife that suck?

Don't get me wrong, I know that forty is fabulous and fifty is fearsome. But do I have to love everything that's happening to me now?

I know to look at the good side of things, really I do. I try to be happy when I notice my hair thinning. "It's not gone," I tell myself. "It's just moved." To my chin.

I'm trying to make the best of my hot flashes, too. I'm Canadian. Surely the extra heat means I'll save on my winter wardrobe.

And when I can't read small print on prescriptions or pill bottles, I try to stay positive and just guess what to take. Golly, apart from that near fatal overdose, things have been fine.

I'm not just asking for myself, Oprah. I'm thinking of my friends. Unlike you, we don't throw lavish parties where famous friends read us poetry. Our little get-togethers are modest affairs with bottles of moderately priced Merlot and lengthy discussions of our raging hormones, wayward teens and Betty the Cougar's affair with Alex the pool boy. We need to blow off a little steam.

So please Oprah Winfrey, please cut me some slack.

Karen